Stalemate Between Flatmates
by Dreaming-Of-A-Nightmare
Summary: It's difficult when you realize your feelings for someone, and find that they feel the same, only to reach a stalemate because you realize how impossible and how dangerous said emotions are. .:. Johnlock. twoshot.
1. How To Reach an Impasse

**A/N: Something that was meant to be a sequel for something else, but was straying too far from my intentions, and therefore deserves to stand alone.**

* * *

><p>It's The Woman's fault for instilling this idea, really. Just the single thing she said, just that one remark: "Someone loves you. If I had to punch that face, I'd avoid your nose and teeth, too."<p>

It perplexes me. It causes me to want to watch John more, to see if he gives anything away. To see if there is any truth behind that offhand remark. Because if there is, I have another alien emotion to consider: _hope._

(There are, of course, things to consider. John is my friend, and cares for me as such – as far as my knowledge extends – and therefore would, most likely, wish to leave me as least unharmed as possible. He has all the control of a military man, as well as all the knowledge of a doctor, and therefore, knows how to hit; where, how hard, and what sort of damage it will inflict. And this both proves and disproves her words. And while I know I shouldn't take them seriously, it gives food for thought.)

John approaches me with a few blueberry scones on a plate. "Hungry? It's nearly noon, and you've been up for hours."

I slowly pan my eyes over to him and relax my hands. I hadn't realized I was thinking so intensely over this until he broke my reverie.

I shake my head. "Had coffee. I should be fine for a while." I glance him over. Shoes on, laces tied securely, jacket on, teeth freshly brushed and smelling minty; he's prepared to go somewhere more important than the store. "Going to meet someone?"

John nods. He doesn't even ask how I know. It's rather obvious, after all. "Yes, for a bit. I'll be back soon."

He turns to leave, the plate of scones on the armrest of my chair. I pick them up, set them aside, and sit up in a crouch. "A woman?"

John freezes by the door. He doesn't glance back. "Yes. An old friend. It's just for a chat, Sherlock."

"Chats can be done on the phone, through text, or over the Internet, through e-mail. This is a date," I assume quietly. "A small date, but a date nonetheless." He's doing that quite a lot, recently: meeting girl after girl. Each one is a bit more idiotic than the last, each one increasingly more defensive and _boring._ I can't recall a single one's name. John is even having difficulties keeping up on them.

He exhales in exasperation and nods his head, keeping it bowed for a moment while he turns to face me. "Yes, all right? I'm going on a date. Is that so wrong?"

Only when you continually do it, John. Only because you are plaguing my thoughts as of late. That's how it's wrong, yes. But: "No, I suppose not. Go on, then." And I pretend that it doesn't bother me in the least while I pick up a scone and bite into it. It tastes bland to me. Even the blueberries in it aren't satisfying. I want to spit it out, but don't. I can tell that Mrs. Hudson must have made them this morning for her breakfast, and shared the leftovers with John and I. Canned blueberries, simple recipe. Sustainable and necessary for my body; can't run on fumes.

John sends me a look before heading out the door, shutting it behind him. I hear his keys in the lock, bolting it. I sigh and set down the scone, struggling to swallow.

If it were my forte, I would simply ask him. Ask him, 'Do you have feelings for me?' And if it were my forte, I would tell him, 'I think I have feelings for you.'

But I can't be sure. I can't. And I detest being unsure. I need more proof, more leads in this. It's the case I have on the backburner: The Case of John Watson and Emotion. The common feelings of society's little people that I am nearly inept in dealing with and understanding socially. What is acceptable? Why do I care that I do this right, make this acceptable?

And I have the answer in seconds: because of John. For his sake, I want to at least try to go about this normally.

But then again, 'normal' has never suited me. I might need to find an alternative option.

And the first thing would be to get to the bottom of John's strange behavior with women as of late.

##

While John is out, I scour the flat for clues. I find plenty in John's room, little pieces of evidence of different women. Paired with the memory I have (very little of it; most of it I deleted because it didn't pertain to me, wasn't useful. But somehow, my brain held on to much of it, as if subconsciously preparing me for this revelation), one thing becomes clear: John is purposely dating women who are more and more opposite myself, and he is dating so many in order to distract himself.

I don't want to think what this means. I am at a bit of a loss, rightfully deemed ignorant by John, because, in cases such as these, I truly don't understand. What does it mean, that he is with women far different than me, and is dating numerous ones over the course of these past few months?

I wish I could consult someone on this matter, but outside opinions can be… risky. The other person could ask questions I don't wish to answer, and could pry into my reasons behind asking. (Which would be completely annoying. I would loathe it, and for once, would feel completely uncomfortable; because as much as I brush off or ignore the comments, I do care, deep inside, whether or not people are aware of – or suspicious of – mine and John's relationship to one another. Particularly now that I know where my own feelings lie, as crossed as they are, like damaged wires.)

Sighing, I drop back down into my chair and finish off the scones. I make coffee, sip at it, and pretend to be experimenting on the hand I have on a platter in the 'fridge (a series of tests concerning fingernails, cuticles, and the winkles of the hand and how evidence can be trapped there, as well as how certain bacteria can eat away at certain parts faster or slower to corrupt identification and character traits) when John comes in.

"Have a nice date, did you?" I say in as disinterested a tone as I can.

"How could you tell?" John asks, hanging up his jacket and walking into the kitchen, where I am stationed at the table.

"Your chipper attitude, of course," I remark. "The bounce in your step as you came up the stairs, the smile on your lips, in your voice, and the way you burst through the door like you have something pleasant to share." I make a scoffing sound. "Not that I care what it is." Because I don't. I have no interest in hearing something that might bring yet another emotion to the surface: jealousy. I can already feel it brewing, and I'm trying very hard to will it away, because it doesn't suit me.

"No, not that you would," John frowns, instantly bitter. He sighs gruffly and makes his way around me to take some leftover coffee from the pot (it's still hot. I calculated that it should be at least warm by the time he returned). "And why is that, exactly? You do know that friends share these sorts of things with one another, don't you? Couldn't you just, I dunno, _indulge _me this once?"

"I prefer not to," I respond, ever nonchalant in the most wary of ways. I remove my gaze from my microscope and remove the slide from it. "Hold this."

John obeys, like he usually does. He holds his coffee in his dominant hand and idly holds the slide aloft with the other. He watches me as I make a new slide of more fragments of dirt and other things collected from a different fingernail on my hand, and uses it to compare to the one he's holding. The equipment here isn't as precise as the lab at the hospital, but it will do for what I have in mind.

(With John home again, I am actually able to focus more on my experiments. I'm not sure why this is, but it's a noted fact.)

John assists me in the minor ways he usually does, all while drinking his sugarless coffee. I can smell it on him, tart and strong and heady. I turn away.

"This new one. Are you serious about her any more than the others? You seem to like to jump ship often, John," I remark before I stop to think about how he might take offense.

Not surprisingly, he does take offense. "Piss off, Sherlock. It's none of your business."

"Sure it is," I say, changing slides again. "You said so yourself, earlier: friends talk about these things. So I'm talking about it."

"No, you're _criticizing_, and I get enough of that from everyone else; I don't need it from you, too, because you're the worst with it," John tells me, voice firm. He sets his empty mug into the sink and leans over my shoulder in the casual manner he tends to do whenever I am bent over something, working: one hand on the back of my chair, the other stabilized on the tabletop. "So drop it, thank you. Now, what are you doing here, again?"

"I thought you were excited about it. You seemed happier when you came in. What changed?" I ask, suspicious. I turn to look at him, our faces a bit too close. He doesn't pull away, even though I thought he would. I lean back instead, giving us more breathing space.

"Nothing, just you being a dick again," John remarks, slight smile on his mouth, up in the left-hand corner (his left, not mine). "Ruining my mood."

"No," I say, realizations striking me like lightning, rapidly one after another. "No, there's something else, something more. You wanted to tell me something, but I've spoiled it, and you're not quite sulking; you're waiting for the right moment to come back to it, but I keep offending you, putting you off it. So what is it, then? Come out with it."

And I look expectantly at him, my eyes searching his face. He raises his brows and shakes his head, leaning off my chair and the table, running a hand through his graying blond hair. "For someone so clever, sometimes you fail to pick up the really important signs, Sherlock." He sounds… disappointed in me. And a bit anxious. And perhaps a little embarrassed in himself.

I'm baffled, and I continue to stare at him, because, as rare as it is, there are times when even _I _am rendered speechless, anticipating what someone is about to say next. (More often than not, that someone is John.)

"But what am I explaining myself for?" he says, beginning to pace the kitchen around the table. My eyes follow his every move, sticking mainly to his expressive face that appears so very _drained. _"I've given up trying. I was going to tell you when I came in, but I've lost my nerve, now. So forget it. Go back to your experiment."

And he leaves me there, and I nearly want to hate him for it. I want to be angry, want to yell at him about it, but I can't seem to have the heart to.

I stand from the table, put away my experiment, and toss my hair.

There's something I'm missing. Some key thing that pieces all of this together: John's behavior, John's choices in women, John's big reveal that he can't seem to get out.

I freeze. Wait. _Wait a moment. _

"Ohh!" I exclaim with my hands pressing into one another against my lips.

That's it, isn't it? The missing link is John. Or, more specifically, what he's keeping from me.

I need to know. I have the right to (I think), and I have the means to.

It's just a matter of getting John to cooperate the way I want him to.

##

I explode into John's room that evening with take-away (Italian) in my hands. "You're eating with me," I announce, and John stares at me over one of his books, his face the epitome of _not right now _and _kindly bugger off._

Understandable.

I smirk and plop down onto his bed, just shy of the foot of it, keeping parallel to him. "Your anger toward me is boring. I might as well dine with my old friend, the skull, if I want utter silence. I thought I might change that. Idle chatter while dining is what normal people do, isn't it?"

John appreciates it when I try acting like everyone else. I'm never entirely positive whether or not he likes it when I do, however. He used to, but as of late, he seems to find it suspicious instead. And for good reason: I usually want something from him when I lower myself to his level. He catches on quickly. (Oh, John. You are cleverer than you seem, aren't you?)

Raising an eyebrow, John nods and takes the bag I offer him. I've noted and stored his favorite Italian foods in my head long ago, so I know the order is right even before he says, "Oh, my favorite!" aloud, muttered under his breath. He looks up at me then, smiling a little, as if to say, 'thank you for remembering.'

I look away and take out my own food in its foam box, popping it open and using the plastic fork inside the bag to begin eating. Around a bite, I ask, "Please, John – and I am actually saying _please _– tell me what you meant to earlier. I dislike not being in the know."

He snorts one of his giggles. "I bet you don't. The problem with you, Sherlock, is that you like knowing everything about everyone because it keeps you distant from them. You can observe things and check them off some imaginary list, putting people off to the side because you have already filed them as either 'dangerous' or 'boring.'"

I blink, stare, fork held midair. He's right, of course. I just had no idea that he could understand so much about me.

He clears his throat and sets his food off to the side, onto his bedside table. "Since you're so insistent, I'll tell you after all: I've realized over these past few months that I… well, I don't fancy anyone. I can't, not when cases with you are a much higher priority. Not when I actually…" and here he hesitates, and it dawns on me, the missing piece: through all my observations, through all my watching sessions, through every moment that was clouded by the presence of another person – Irene, Lestrade, Molly, even Mrs. Hudson – I failed to notice John's reactions, responses. I failed to see the connection, the motive, behind his slew of women so different from me, and his readiness to drop them.

He was jealous of Irene, has been in denial for some time beforehand, and upon understanding himself, he's been trying his utmost to prove himself wrong.

None of his previous dates were me. They were smart girls, but not nearly as clever and unpredictable as I am. And, later, after understanding why he felt so changed by Irene's presence, he tried to distract himself by being with women very opposite me. He thought that, if he could like one of them, it would disprove his conclusion, that he has feelings for me.

So it's entirely true, then. All the jokes, all the talk, all the tension and affection others saw or picked up that John and I hadn't.

We've been dancing around the truth; putting it off, avoiding it, because it was convenient, because it would preserve what we currently have, and because it would keep others at bay. But in the end, it's impossible to oppose forever; John and I are… compatible, to say the least. We are bonded, to say just as little.

(We're in love.)

"You have that face on," John points out quietly. "That epiphany face of yours. The one, I've learned, that means you've got it all figured out." He sighs, looks over at his meal. "Do you, then? Know what I'm getting at?"

"Yes," I say in a voice too soft and low to be my own. (But it is, isn't it? That's me talking. I'm confessing. Don't think this suits me, either.) I feel out of place. Something's wrong; I only wish I could place _what. _– It's not John, it's… _something else. _A sort of fear. I don't want it. It's making me feel sick. (Appetite soiled.) I swallow. "I know, John."

He nods. "Knew you would, at some point." He sighs again, this time with a hint of pain. "What I don't get is: why? Why you? Why _me_? I felt good about it, earlier, like I figured out something fantastic, but you reminded me that it wouldn't work. As much as I…" He falters again, nibbling his lip. I find my eyes attracted to the motion. "_Care _for you, it wouldn't do."

That's not entirely true. He thinks I don't feel remotely the same; but he's incorrect. Oh, so very _incorrect_. "Perhaps not," I agree anyway, "But you've missed signs as well, John. I…" Hesitate. Don't know which words to use, so I borrow his. "_Care for you_ in the same way."

He blinks. "You do?" he says, voice brinking on being a gasp. His face is sheer disbelief, and I smile a bit to reassure him.

"Sure, why else would I say otherwise? Come on, John. Use your head," and it's teasing and unfair, I know, but this whole moment is… well, not what I had intended. I shift in position a smidge, uncrossing my legs, leaving one foot tucked beneath my knee, the other grazing the floor. "But you are right in some sense. It might not work. It hardly works now, our 'friendship,' being sleuthing colleagues and more-or-less functional flatmates. How could we possibly function as anything else?"

John nods his head grimly. "That was my point. For slightly different reasons, but still the same concept."

He is trying to indicate, I'm sure, my asexuality as one of those 'reasons.' He thinks I'm disinterested in any form of romance. And up until I met him, it was true. I've long since convinced myself that no one could love me but my mother (and, I suppose, Mycroft, in his own way), and I had no desire to love anyone else. But then came John, and The Woman, and even Molly, I realize. People _can _like me, even when I don't look for their approval, and some can even love me for who I am, despite the 'insanity' (others' words, not mine) that ensues when I am involved.

John goes on, "But I think… I think we could _try, _don't you? Just… just like one of your experiments. A trial period of sorts. I could do that for you, I think. And if you were willing – just for me – we could…"

I pause, consider this. A large part of me (a greater deal than I had previously surmised) wants this, almost craves it. There's a thrill about thinking of John as something other than a live-in colleague, as other than a friend. It's a temptation, something quite appealing and the opposite of dull (which is strange, because I always thought love was dull and foolish). And yet…

In the short silence, John picks up his food and pokes at it, eating small bites. I still feel sick about something. My subconscious is trying to get a message across, and John is distracting me from understanding it.

Suddenly, John chuckles ironically. "Funny, though, isn't it? I didn't think – well, no one thought, really. That you would ever… feel for someone. But look, Sherlock, you must have a heart, because here we are."

I smile a little. Yes, I must have the metaphorical 'heart' every one else has. Something dully normal within me, one of the few things keeping me human.

A jolt of cold fear shoots through me. _Wait. _"Heart."

John looks up, his fork in his mouth. He removes it, food in his cheek, and speaks, "Come again?"

I stand, feeling white, and realize what that sensation of 'wrong' was, why this truly couldn't work, and why I've felt so timid about this: _"Moriarty, _John. He said he would 'burn the heart out of me.' That's why this can't –" and I growl with frustration, already turning and heading out of the room to search the flat for one of my patches, because just when I think I have this sorted out (the observations, the distractions: all of it categorized – as love, of all things – and being made slowly into something doable), a problem gets in the way. And problems like this requite some nicotine.

"Sherlock? Sherlock! What are you –" John's saying, following after me, our food forgotten in his room. He catches me by the arms and spins me around to face him (too close_, too close_; proximity warning: touching touching _touching_), and his brows are furrowed and he's trying to calm me down and keep me from my patches. "Hold on, will you? Just hold _on _a moment. What about Moriarty?"

"If he knew, if we tried this, if anyone –" I tense up all over, body alert for danger than isn't technically imminent. It's irrational, very unlike me, but refuses to dissolve. "Oh, but he already has guessed, hasn't he? That's why he wired you at the pool. He knew you were important to me. Didn't know the extent – neither did I, did _we, _at the time – but knew, at least, you were my closest – _only _– friend. And that's dangerous, John. That's…" My mind races with all the things I could say.

(_You will get hurt. I might not be able to stop him.)_

_(I can't let it happen, not when my 'heart' is you.)_

_(I can't lose you. I'd rather be the one to die. I deserve it; not you.)_

I snap back to myself and shake my head violently. "No, no, no!"

I don't want this. In fact, I don't even need it.

My face falls and John is left staring at me, concern the only expression; it's practically bleeding through his pores. "…Sherlock?" he ventures.

"Never mind, John," I tell him calmly, straightening myself and prying his hands from my shirt. "Never mind."

"What? 'Never _mind_?' Sherlock, we finally say to one another – and then you think of Moriarty and some _danger _for me, and suddenly you decide against everything?" he says animatedly, face passionate.

(Oh, poor John. I'm so sorry.)

"Yes, I have. I'm sorry, John, I am. But it would be best if we forgot about this. Carry on as usual, move on. It's not…" I blow air out my mouth and tear my gaze from his. Something inside me contorts, stirring something painful. "It's not important. Not vital at all." And I turn and feel like I could use a real cigarette. Or my violin.

John blinks, stares, gapes. He has the appearance akin to a wounded puppy. He nods, bows his head. "Yes, you're right. It's probably for the best."

He doesn't believe his own words.

(Neither do I.)


	2. How To Resolve Said Impasse

Some things are common knowledge. For example: basic maths, keeping your mouth closed when you chew, and Sherlock Holmes is a brilliant man not to be argued with.

But common knowledge can be ignored, if one chooses to. So for whatever reason, I have taken it upon myself to be the person who argues with the world's only consulting detective.

I correct him on his people skills. I try to use my own logic on the subject of emotion to persuade him to see things through my eyes. I try and try again to level him out, or get him to shut up, or even put him off an idea or deduction.

It's not an easy feat. I often have to resort to cursing, shouting, spiteful hand gestures, and on occasion, physical force. I don't usually win. But sometimes I get him to reconsider, or take something back, or keep quiet. My arguments aren't always valid, and my methods aren't always pleasant, but eventually he comes around. Most of the time, all it takes is _me _being the one to grow quiet and leave the room for him to realize what he said or did during the argument was morally or humanly wrong.

Except there is one argument we have at least once a month (if not more), as of late, that has no winning side. We both lose this argument, no matter which (or few) words are exchanged. It's pointless to bring up, and we're at a stalemate with it.

And it's the topic of our feelings for one another.

##

I first bring it up the second I see him again.

I thought he had died. I thought Moriarty had won. I thought that, instead of Moriarty "burning Sherlock's heart (me)" as Sherlock feared, Moriarty had somehow forced Sherlock to kill himself instead. I still refuse to believe that Sherlock would willingly commit suicide. There had to be a catch; after all, he isn't the sort.

He's too vain to kill himself, to waste his mind like that. And even though it took me a long time (roughly eighteen months) to reach this conclusion, I knew it had to be true.

So I waited for the miracle.

And when it came, I think I didn't know what to do with myself. I remember seeing grey-black-white making the edges of my vision blurry, and I remember swaying on my feet, Sherlock anticipating my faint and catching me before I could actually pass out. He steadied me and, slowly, the haze lifted. I righted myself, slapped him across the face, and then brought him into my arms and repeatedly called him a foolish, reckless, cruel idiot.

But he only smiled that smile at me, the smirking half-smile he gets whenever he's proud of me. He mussed my hair, apologized, and launched into his explanation.

It's then that I opened my mouth and ruined things. "…So you were right, then. Moriarty did target me. But he's gone now, and so are his men; so why can't we, you know… try, Sherlock? Remember what we talked about before all this? About… about caring for one another? And… a-and having a trial period, like an experiment? Can't we do that? I've missed you. God, you don't know how much. I just want, now, to –"

But he had cut me off, a forlorn expression briefly flashing across his face – true heartbreak – before turning blank and unreadable, a perfectly practiced mask. A mask he only needs, it seems, when he actually _feels _something, when he is, more often than not, alone with me to have them. He told me quietly, "No, John. You need to let me finish. I said I spent those three years of my 'death' taking out every assassin and backup plan Moriarty had, but I'm not sure it was enough. One got away, and for all I know, he's going to report back to Moriarty. After all, if I can fake my death as perfectly as I did, it's only logical that he could do the same just as easily."

Unfortunately, this is how our little stalemate gets re-hashed. See, it's been increasingly worse, our argument, all because Moriarty could still be at large. He might try to use similar methods again. Emotional blackmail, I like to call it.

And so that's just it, isn't it? His job isn't perfectly finished, and he has all the proof he needs to remind me why it's too dangerous to go on the way we both want to, and I keep telling him it's rubbish, we're in danger anyway, and it doesn't matter because it would be better to go out being together instead of apart, and on and on.

And it's all of this, within the week since his return from the dead, which collides together to form our routine spat for the months to come. And this spat is triggered whenever we slip into any sort of scenario that is too friendly, too warm, too familiar.

##

I hand Sherlock a cup of tea, and our fingers accidentally overlap. We freeze in place for a millisecond. Then I'm the one who takes his sweet time removing my fingers, dragging the tips across Sherlock's long, smooth digits until there is no length of them left to touch, and I let my hand fall away completely.

"John," he says, swallowing. He looks away. "Don't."

"It's fine, Sherlock, it –"

"No, John," he reminds me, and then he stands and leaves the kitchen. I hear the violin, too loud, moments later.

##

The couch is being refurbished, stuffed and sewn to near-newness, and we're left with only our chairs. I take mine, turn it toward the telly, and in doing so, have it sitting beside Sherlock's. He stiffens in his chair, our forearms brushing lightly as I sit down, and he holds his book (another one about biology in general, and in specific, about the mummification process that can occur naturally in nature, such as in a bog) up closer to his nose.

"Do you mind if I turn it up a bit louder? I know you're reading, but –" and I casually nudge his forearm with my elbow to get his attention, and generally, to receive a response.

"I'm going to me room," he states suddenly, and he stands and turns sharply away.

"What? Hang on!" I holler after him, leaping to my feet and charging behind him. "What the hell, Sherlock? All I did was ask you a question –"

"And you _touched _me, John. And anyone with a head knows that when one person feels for another the way you do for me, they will use any excuse they can to touch that person, even if it seems casual, and it's a means of getting closer to said person," he says in a series of quick, breathless words.

I hate it when he strings together things almost too fast to follow. I scowl and throw up my hands. "That's bloody exaggerated! I wasn't doing a _thing_ like that! Ever since you've been back, you've been nothing but tense, do you know that?"

"You're the one who suggested the impossible within the first hour of my return," Sherlock snaps back, and I feel my body jerk as if on guard for an attack.

"I was a melding pot of emotion then, Sherlock! I was hurt and angry and relieved and overjoyed and flush with worry and love and betrayal! How care you use what I said against me? I was in a fragile state, possibly in shock that you were _alive. _Can you really blame me for bringing it up then? Can you really use it against me all these times now? All I did was miss a friend! And I thought, before I knew, that if things were alright –"

"But they aren't. So drop it," Sherlock retorts icily. There is a flash of pain in his eyes, but aside from that, I see nothing. It's as if he's purposely torn out his heart and left it to rot. He turns again on his heel and heads for his room, door closing loudly, but not quite a slam.

I return to my chair and slump down into it. Even the telly can't calm me; I shut it off, sigh, and put my face in both my hands as I bend over, elbows on my knees.

##

It's at a crime scene on one of our first cases as a team again (no one knows we're there except for Greg, who sneaks us in under the disguise of a coroner and an evidence collector) that things turn truly sour.

I stand not three feet away from Sherlock, perhaps even more than that, and am determining the cause of death and trying to make my own little deductions (more like suggestions, though; I haven't the knack Sherlock does, obviously, even if I've been trained by him to look harder and think a bit more). When I stand and got o speak to him, prepared to mutter to him the way we used to, he suddenly backs off.

He steps away, circles the body, and begins rattling off his own theories. He ignores me. Flabbergasted and offended, I look away and refuse to speak to him the rest of the night. I do, however, throw my ideas and evaluations at Greg, who listens carefully and nods on occasion. Sherlock doesn't glance at me for a second, as far as I can tell.

And he doesn't even mind that I'm giving him the silent treatment. It used to work well for me; he would get huffy and annoyed that I was neglecting him, being unresponsive, and he would threaten to go back to speaking to the skull since I was just as inanimate as it was.

But this time, he doesn't say anything about it. In turn, he ignores me as well.

And it's that lack of even average proximity, that failure of even communication through argument or idea-tossing that I know I'm at my limit. The final straw that broke the camel's back: that night at a crime scene in which Sherlock made it seem that I no longer existed.

##

It's killing me, really. But I can't tell Sherlock that. I can't sit there and say, "By the way, Sherlock, I'm beginning to hate you more than I love you because you refuse to even touch me anymore, and all we do is fight, or, lately, hardly say anything to one another at all, unless it's to ask to pass the salt or make a cuppa."

It's ridiculous and insane and _tiring._

Thus, I'm finished with it. Sherlock is being uncharacteristically cautious and overly defensive about it, and I'm being unusually slapdash and eager about it, and we're both going about it the wrong way. And yet I feel like I'm not _too _eager; I'm only trying to restore the friendship we once had, at the very least. He's the one who keeps taking each show of normal comfort or response as flirting, and I can't understand why. I know I said what I did when we came back into my life again, but I already gave me reasons for it. Why can't he accept them?

(And why won't he answer me about some of them?)

…It's too much.

So, now, I want to fix things. And I think it's high time I settle this stalemate once and for all in a single, bold move.

##

"Sherlock," I announce firmly as I step into the kitchen one late morning. He's at the table, examining something under that microscope of his, and jotting down brief notes in his shorthand. I wait for him to turn and face me.

"What is it, Joh–?" he begins with a measured tone, but I don't let him finish. I grab his face and tenderly rub the pad of my thumb over one of his cheekbones as I kiss him with everything I've got.

He smells of coffee and grapefruit with brown sugar, and his lips are still slightly sticky with the sugar from either one. I lick the seam of his lips to capture the taste, and he gasps into my mouth just as I'm beginning to pull away.

When I look at him, I'm slightly breathless. I can practically feel the dilation in my eyes, and I can see it in his, the pupils blown wide and his lips parted. He shakes it off and turns back to his microscope. His voice is low, seemingly threatening, but in fact sounding husky, _aroused._ "John," he says slowly, "I thought we agreed we weren't going to –"

"And I decided: 'fuck that,'" I tell him quickly. I yank out another seat from the table and sit down, staring at him. He keeps his eyes fixed on his microscope, but he isn't looking into it. "Sherlock, I get where you're coming from, all right? But just this once, can you put aside your stubbornness and realize that I'm right? We're stronger as a team, as friends or more, and you know it. I can't even work with you anymore, because you won't even let me get close enough to speak to you properly."

"Even if you were correct," he replies at length and around a clearing of his throat, his eyes lifting to meet mine, "Aren't you the one who originally was all against being with me? I've sat there and listened, you know, to every time you denied that we were dating or together. Just because you decided a few years ago that you were tired of women and wanted me doesn't mean it still stands, not after what I put you through, and not after all the times we've fought over this these past few months."

"…Sherlock, _honestly,_" I say with a roll of my eyes. I put my face in my hand and run it down the length of my skin. I look back at him and give him one of my dead serious stares. "I was the one to ask for a trial period at the least. I was the one who confessed first. Do you really think I still care what anyone else thinks of us? And for another thing," I go on, gaining speed now, "I'm past all that about the fall you took and leaving me in the shadows. You're back and we're mostly in our same routine, but you're holding back too much. You don't even look at me. It's like I'm not even here."

He sucks in air and looks like he's torn between saying three to five separate things. In the end, he tells me, "I do look at you, John, more often than I should, and with more longing than I can bear. Just listening to your voice pains me sometimes, and I know you're correct. I have been behaving poorly, and very unlike myself. I suppose I didn't think the collective –" and I assume he means Moriarty and his suicide and the hunting of assassins and coming back to me all as a whole "– would affect me as much as it has, could even claw at me as much as it has. But, at one point, John, you must understand that I got tired of fighting, of the arguments of my doing through my own hesitancy and confliction to protect you and remain married to my work like I had always planned for myself."

Hearing this sends a startling ache through me, a rip in my lungs, heart, and ribs that twists everything into crumpled, shredded paper. I feel my breath hitch, and I have to glance away to stop myself from falling too deeply into Sherlock's gaze.

I nod my head slightly. "Yeah, we fight a bit, but we always have. It's just that, this time, it's about _us _and not about the petty things we used to fight about." I sigh and shake my head. "So level with me, Sherlock: are _you _the one who's lost interest in _me, _and this is your way of 'letting me down easy'? Because you're not very good at it. You sound more like an insecure teenager. I can tell you still care, but how much? It seems like all we're doing is causing each other pain by avoiding the issues that need the most attention."

Sherlock smirks bitterly at that, but only for a split second. Then he's sighing as well, a pale hand carding through his dark hair. "I don't think I will ever lose interest in you, John," he says so quietly that it's nearly a whisper. He shakes his head a bit, peers sideways at me, and then stands from his chair. He kneels before me, where I sit staring and hopeful, and he places a hand on mine where it rests on the table. "I shouldn't have taken your determination for granted. You are as hard-headed as I am, in your own way."

"Got that right," I say with a grin, and then all thoughts yield when Sherlock leans up and presses his lips to mine again. When he breaks the long kiss, I have to ask: "So can we, then? Try being more-than-flatmates for a spell?"

"I think I've resisted long enough," Sherlock concedes with a smirk. "You've convinced me."

"Glad I could use my wits, then," I say with a grin of my own, and soon I'm bringing him back toward me, because I need to memorize how those lips feel before we're fully agreed. I need to know if I truly like them as much as I think I do.

And I find that I do, and Sherlock seems just as pleased.

And that, quite simply, is how one goes about resolving a stalemate with their flatmate.

If only I had known direct confrontation could be so easy; I would have tried it long ago. – But then again, I think I had to keep pushing, remaining patient, until everything was broken. Only then was it able to be put back together properly.

How tragically poetic.


End file.
